


What If My Ninth Was With You

by yozra



Series: The Black Cat [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bartender!Kuroo, Break Up, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Break Up, Salaryman!Semi, hints of supernatural happenings, rarepairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 08:10:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20386492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yozra/pseuds/yozra
Summary: The bar both blessed and cursed.Kuroo was supposed to be cursed.





	What If My Ninth Was With You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EreKanezawa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EreKanezawa/gifts).

> I received a prompt for bartender!Kuroo and this is the result.
> 
> Rarepairs abound, though only if you wish to follow the series.
> 
> To Ere: I know how much you love this pairing - I hope I did them justice.

Kuroo heard it ten minutes into his shift on the first day of starting work at the bar ‘The Black Cat’—  
  
_The workers are cursed._  
  
One of the bartenders had pulled him aside, asked about his relationship status (pretty personal for a ‘get to know you’ question, but Kuroo humoured him with “taken”); he got a warning: everyone was doomed to be forever single while they remained employed at the bar, unable to tear themselves away from the clutches of lost loves, or – if they were in a relationship – unable to continue forward without it breaking down in the near future.  
  
He laughed it off, said he was new, not young, gullible or stupid. He had gone through half his twenties with the dead for neighbours (no ghosts, no funny business, not even a flickering light), had spent the best years of his life there, lived with his then-boyfriend there, all for half the average rental cost in central Tokyo because of the ‘graveyard view’ out of their bedroom window. Needless to say, he wasn’t much of a believer in superstitions.  
  
A week later, the employee quit the bar. Two months in, Kenma quit Kuroo.  
  
Kuroo blamed himself, loathed his luck, despised the world – but he still didn’t believe in the curse.   
  
Seven years later with the title of manager and working with five fine bachelors all shouldering emotional baggage, and he was inclined to believe that the curse just might be real.  
  
The bar itself lay under an old concrete building on a side street minutes away from the eastern border of Ginza, the sign directing customers to the flight of stairs a fickle thing that had a mind of its own. It decided exactly when to flicker on the yellowed light to alert passersby of its existence, and when to black out and conceal the black letters of the bar’s name and a silhouette of what looked like a chubby ball with two triangles and a squiggle.   
  
The door groaned loudly upon entry, a strong competitor to the bell that was the true crier announcing the arrival of yet another battered heart, whose temporary retreat was lit by dying stars cradled in iron that dotted the walls daubed with the moon’s misty glow, and whose station was one of the nine evenly-lined stools on which light reflecting off the worn black leather presented stages of the lunar eclipse.   
  
But the most impressionable piece was the counter cut directly from night, swirling borders painted with shimmer from a meteor; it sliced the room in half, distinctly separated visitor and staff, and to make sure neither side overstepped this border, a rounded, black, ceramic cat with golden slits for eyes sat proudly on the far end, watching the evening’s exchanges and judging their level of entertainment.  
  
Kuroo liked the bar, rich and matured and full of flavour, but realisation recently hit that as a man now settled in the thirties club, he should probably do something more meaningful with his life than being a smartly dressed agony aunt every single day of the week (excluding Mondays) (except on public holidays) between the hours of sunset and two a.m.  
  
(Literally sunset. As in he had a chart of times printed out and held together on the clipboard of Important Notes kept under the counter; not one minute earlier, not one minute late.)  
  
“—Kuroo. Hey, Kuroo?”  
  
Bokuto’s face popped into view, concerned eyes matching the colours of the lighting just visible under his greyscale fringe.  
  
Kuroo shook his head to clear the daze. “Yeah, sorry. You were saying?”  
  
“What were you thinking about?” Bokuto asked, prying the bags of mixed nuts from Kuroo’s hands and returning to his position of crouching to pack them away in one of the cupboards.  
  
“You know, the usual,” Kuroo said with a vague wave.   
  
“Ah,” Bokuto said knowingly. “How to get rid of your bedhead.”  
  
“What?” Kuroo pulled a face that went unnoticed, pushed up his sleeves with their cuffs already rolled twice over and crossed his arms over his black waistcoat as he looked down on Bokuto (also going unnoticed). “We’ve been through this, it’s _styled_, it’s called ‘au naturel’—”  
  
“_Bedhead_,” Bokuto insisted louder, though it was less effective when the wood buffered his voice. “Iwaizumi’s is styled—”  
  
“What’s that about me?”  
  
Iwaizumi flipped up the counter flap that closed off one of the two arched cased openings (still one for the customer, other for the staff) on the far end opposite to the entrance; it lead to a tiny corridor with a restroom door.   
  
“Bo was just saying I’ve got this great hairstyle and he wanted to know how I made it work so he could do something similar to his hair.”  
  
There was a squawk and some spluttering coming from under the counter to which Iwaizumi glanced down before looking up at Kuroo to study the topic in question.  
  
“It’s just bedhead,” Iwaizumi concluded. “Don’t try and copy him, Bokuto, your style’s fine as it is. And it makes you more approachable than if you had it up.”  
  
“What? Oh… oh! Uh – thanks!”  
  
Kuroo chuckled at the puzzled frown on Iwaizumi’s face. He was about to provide an additional helpful comment – cut short with the bell alerting them of their first customer for the night.  
  
Throughout the evening, the door opened at scattered intervals and no more than two were present at a time, though for a Tuesday it wasn’t so bad; depending on the season and timing they were lucky if they managed one customer a night. They worked around each other with barely a word, used to the flow and the order in which they took their tasks.  
  
When the last customer stood up and Kuroo thought they were in for a quick break, another bout of ringing pulled him back into work-mode.  
  
“Welcome—”  
  
Kuroo froze. Stared.  
  
White suit, lilac shirt, bold purple tie, and an ash brown waistcoat matching his hair – he had to hand it to him, not many people would be so stubborn as to be fully-dressed in the summer heat.  
  
They couldn’t have been that far off in age, the lines on his face still too faint to be any older but visible enough to stress the sharpness of his eyes daring anyone to criticise to his face. Kuroo would have been first to shoot off his mouth – had it been anyone else. It was his belief that no one could get away with wearing a white suit, except clearly he was being provided with a perfect exception to the rule.  
  
And as fine as the man looked inside those clothes, Kuroo wouldn’t mind peeling off each layer to see how he looked out of them.  
  
The man was doing it for him though, pulling off his jacket to roll it in a rough bundle, dropping it on the second seat from the door, then loosening and tugging off his tie which fell to curl itself on top. He unbuttoned the top button, flapped his collar to let some cool air in, and picked up the menu as he settled himself on the end seat.  
  
Along with the sour look, he was emitting a strong ‘try fucking with me’ aura that could be felt all the way from the other end of the counter where Kuroo currently stood. Kuroo looked to the other two – Bokuto back to storing bags Iwaizumi was now handing to him, so it was up to him to take up this man’s challenge by sauntering over with the widest of smiles.  
  
“You’re dressed to the nines. Where’ve you come from?”  
  
The man’s gaze slid onto him, tried to pierce and deflate his humour.   
  
Little did he know, he would need something slightly stronger in his arsenal to get through Kuroo’s humour of steel.  
  
The failed attack forced the man’s attention back onto the menu. “I’ll have a Yukiguni.”  
  
Iced tone, frosted glare, dressed in white – a perfect drink for the main character of a modern-day version of the snowy folktale, _yuki-onna_. Here was a spirit dressed to kill, partial to cocktails, and an attitude so cold not even the summer heat could melt him.  
  
Kuroo sniffed and cleared his throat, ironing out the twitches to his imminent laughter.  
  
Normally he switched modes at curt orders, slid out of his playful skin into snide. He didn’t stand for that phrase everyone threw around – ‘Customer is God’ – it cost nothing for a person to show some respect. But the man provided an amusing image so Kuroo let it slide and decided to do him good service by leaving a decent impression of what would be his first and last visit to the bar.  
  
Kuroo carefully pulled out the necessary bottles off the shelves, started measuring out the liquor. “Coming right up.”  
  
Along with the curse for the workers came the blessing bestowed upon the customers. One night spent drowning in drink and sorrow, and any customer would have the courage to leave behind a past romance however lost or broken or inearthed within a person’s heart.  
  
One night would lead them onto a new and better future. One night and they would never be seen again.  
  
This, Kuroo believed. It was a fact that in all the years he spent working he had never seen the same customer twice, and he knew it wasn’t about not recognising them due to age or surgery or whatever other excuse that could have been given.   
  
Kuroo also helped to make this rumour a reality. He had to, he worked here. He listened to all their woes, handed out advice in the gaps of silence offered, and did a pretty damn good job of it in his most humble and honest opinion.  
  
He shot a glance at the black cat.  
  
Just – it got old, seeing everyone else allowed to move forward, fresh starts set out before them, while he was stuck behind the barrier waiting to be let through, dragging behind unwanted baggage. He wanted to throw it aside and jump over, make a run for it without his past clawing him back.  
  
Kuroo poured the murky liquid over the green cherry sitting at the bottom and slid the glass onto the counter. “Your drink.”  
  
The man grabbed it, downed it, placed the empty glass on the counter, cherry untouched, and grabbed his tie and jacket. “How much?”  
  
Kuroo had never seen anyone so keen to leave.  
  
“Twelve-hundred yen.”  
  
The man shoved a hand in his pocket and pulled out crumpled notes and change, sifted and prodded for the exact amount and placed it onto the counter. He flicked his gaze up to Kuroo, cold as his attitude and waiting for him to complain.   
  
Kuroo almost fell for him right there.  
  
He gave a nod of acceptance. The man seemed satisfied and strode out.  
  
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone get out so quick,” Iwaizumi muttered, coming up next to him.  
  
“Must be having a bad day,” Kuroo said, his voice far away and eyes glued to the door, mentally wishing for the impossible of having the man walk back through.  
  
“He didn’t even say what his problem was.”  
  
“He’s a quick processor and deals with his problems himself.”  
  
“Thought so – you liked him and his prissy attitude. I’m surprised you didn’t try harder to pick him up.”  
  
Kuroo turned to Iwaizumi. “I draw the line at flirting.”  
  
“You say because there’s no point, I say because you’re not good at it. But it doesn’t stop you from trying extra hard when they’re quiet guys with an edge.”  
  
“Hey, remember that time you tried to sweet-talk Iwaizumi and he head-butted you?” Bokuto called from the ground, unaware he knocked the grin off Kuroo’s face onto Iwaizumi’s.  
  
Another ring from the door prevented Kuroo from lashing out with a comeback that would have Bokuto blushing, and Iwaizumi moved as a sign he would take this customer, a man in his forties dragging himself in, looking too worn for what was only the second workday of the week.  
  
The bar returned to its regularly scheduled programme of a constant drifting in and out of customers, some sitting in quiet with their thoughts or phones, others talking with the bartenders. Occasionally hesitant murmurs were exchanged amongst themselves, though that was more frequent during weekends.  
  
At exactly two a.m., Kuroo flipped the sign outside the door over and with most of the cleanup already done, sent Iwaizumi and Bokuto home so he could finish up on his own. He took this duty upon himself, one of the sacrifices he made as manager.  
  
It was tradition for him on Tuesday nights to exchange the offering set on the cream plate in front of the cat; a small piece of dried fish which he took from the opened bag under the counter kept to be served as one of the few foods available on the menu as an accompaniment to people’s drinks.   
  
He chewed on the old fish, a perfect balance of salty and sweet. “Your offering of the week, Morion.”  
  
The offering was a voluntary part of the job description. He had never seen previous managers follow through with it, calling the request a stupid joke, but Kuroo respected it as soon as he found out, receiving odd looks and ribbing in the process. He may not have met the owner of the bar, a man named Nekomata who he kept in touch with via email, but he imagined him to have a good sense of humour.  
  
And respect. Even a disbeliever in superstitions would have a change of heart once they had worked a certain amount of time at the bar.   
  
Kuroo scratched Morion’s head.   
  
“Wouldn’t want to bend the rules just once and drag that blond back in, would you?”  
  
The light immediately above the cat flickered and Kuroo thought it made the cat narrow its eyes in contempt.  
  
He huffed and smiled weakly. “Yeah, you’re right. He wasn’t my type.”  
  
Yawning loudly, he began the process of wiping down and sweeping the floors, readying the bar for the following day.

_“I’m moving out.”_  
  
_“...What?”_  
  
_“I’m moving out.”_  
  
_“Yeah, I heard you the first time. I meant, what the hell do you mean you’re moving out? Why?”_  
  
_“This isn’t good for us.”_  
  
_“What’s not good?! Exactly what about what we have now isn’t good? This is good for me!”_  
  
_“Then this isn’t good for me.”_  
  
_“What isn’t? Tell me, what isn’t working out for you?”_  
  
_“…You.”_

Stripped down to his undershirt and boxer briefs, Kuroo leant over the railing of his fourth floor balcony overlooking a square patch of gravel with a single bench and a vending machine. It was marked down as a park but was actually a local hiding ground for husbands escaping their homes for an uninterrupted cigarette break and a scroll through their phones. Unsurprisingly, it was abandoned during the hour of three a.m.   
  
A glass of whiskey hung from between his fingertips, and he took a final drag on his roll-up before pressing the stub into the ashtray, used to the sting that singed his yellow-stained skin. He made a general rule of smoking only during a drink and reminisce (which he felt grew more frequent as he grew older) and preferred rolling his own after a man in his fifties touted its benefits late one night at the bar. Kuroo wasn’t sure how much of it was true, but he did like that it gave him an edgy look once he got the hang of rolling the perfect cigarette.  
  
The image of white and purple still burned in his view. It was rare for him to fall so fast, so hard, bindings coming undone, memories tumbling after. To deal with the knocks he numbed his nerves with a stiff drink and redressed his wounds with ash and tar, then began the aching task of picking up the scattered memories to store them in order ready for another chance encounter to knock them over again.  
  
He wasn’t complaining. He knew he had it better than the others.  
  
After Kuroo, Bokuto was the first of the miserable bunch to join. At the time he was still together with his high school sweetheart of ten years, who announced three months later that he took a job offer abroad – without consulting Bokuto first. This apparently triggered all their frustrations to come pouring out – more from the sweetheart – and Kuroo helped Bokuto with the aftermath the ex-boyfriend left behind. Kuroo put him up during the weeks that followed, consulting him through his lows, grit through the lullaby of cries from the makeshift bedroom intended to be a kitchen-dining room, and when he decided enough was enough, nudged him back into a hobby, into working, and eventually into his own place.  
  
He still felt responsible for their breakup.  
  
Iwaizumi and Ushijima who followed were... complicated. Ushijima had dated Iwaizumi’s childhood friend who Iwaizumi had been pining for since the first day they met (an unhealthily long time to keep feelings bottled up in Kuroo’s opinion). The childhood friend suddenly cut ties with Ushijima (whose expression, behaviour or voice didn’t fracture as he relayed his story, but Kuroo had a suspicion there was a whole iceberg of emotions beneath the cool exterior). Iwaizumi gave his friend until he returned to the dating scene before confessing his feelings – only to be shut down.   
  
Moniwa was a mystery. He spoke about his most recent relationship (ended two years before joining) like he was talking about his degree or listing off work experience. He easily answered Kuroo’s questions with good humour, needed no time to stop and check in with his heart to make sure it was together. Moniwa wasn’t a liar, and was liked by customers and staff alike, but even as Moniwa remained unbroken under the relentless questioning during their interview, Kuroo doubted.  
  
As for Azumane – well, Kuroo only knew his last relationship involved a man named Yuu, but when Azumane hadn’t returned from the break upstairs half an hour after it ended, Kuroo had gone up to fetch him himself, only to hear the broken sobs echoing in the alley.  
  
He left him alone that evening and never asked the question again.  
  
Kuroo balanced the glass next to the ashtray on the railing, picked up the pack of papers and eased a slip out, then the pouch of tobacco for a pinch, nudging the loose leaves evenly across its bed.  
  
They were all cursed. Their hearts had been rejected and severed, barricaded and shattered, brushed aside, cast out, and they all worked at the bar wounds poorly stitched and ready to tear with a flick of a wrong word, a steep slicing gaze – but until that happened they wallowed in sorrow, because to step outside the comforts of the bar meant to risk entering something new, and they were too old for that, too jaded to be enticed by the bright glimmer that would eventually lead them back full circle.  
  
Kuroo ran his tongue along the paper’s edge, rolled the cigarette tight and thin and put it to his lips. He picked up the lighter, scrape of metal against stone resounding in the silence as he lifted it closer; the low flame gave a tentative lick before devouring its poisoned morsel, helped with the rush of air as Kuroo took a fresh drag.  
  
What if he had said and done differently?  
  
What if he had been a better man?  
  
What if he could tweak certain points of his past?  
  
What if?

* * * *

Fridays were always busy and this evening was no exception with over half the seats occupied, the air a weird mixture of electric and somber which Kuroo never liked but learnt to get used to. He casually glanced to the two others on tonight’s shift.  
  
Azumane was chopping up cucumbers to the centre of the bar, chatting quietly to a woman in her forties. If she had a dilemma it was clearly forgotten from the way she leaned over to make sure she was in his face when making passes, which Azumane weakly laughed off.  
  
At the other end of the bar by the exit was Ushijima, his expression serious (then again, when wasn’t he), chatting – conversing – _confabulating_ – with an elderly gentleman. They were no longer talking, the man on his last few sips and Ushijima clearing an empty plate, so maybe they had reached an end.  
  
Kuroo was by the seat closest to Morion, seeing to a woman only weeks ago turned twenty, distressing over the sight of her boyfriend with her best friend. Not as common an occurrence as Kuroo originally thought, but he heard it often enough for it to become repetitive. She had settled down at last, taking a break by sipping on a glass of water between dabbing her eyes with her flower-patterned towel.  
  
Kuroo excused himself and went up to Azumane.  
  
“Need me to swap in?” he murmured behind him as he pretended to straighten the bottles.  
  
“What?” — Azumane’s shoulders tensed as he turned his head, then relaxed — “Oh – no, it’s fine,” he laughed off, his smile forced.  
  
“You sure? You can take the easy one, she’s almost done.”  
  
“Really, it’s okay. Thanks though, Kuroo.”  
  
Kuroo never knew where Azumane’s limits lay, but he deemed he was still a safe distance away. He tapped him on the shoulder a couple of times as encouragement. “Hang in there.”  
  
Next he wandered over to Ushijima, the elderly man having just left, and was about to check in on his evening’s progress when the ringing distracted him.  
  
He dropped everything. His smile. His self-possession.  
  
The man was in a navy suit this time, white shirt, wine-red tie, a black bag in hand – the perfect portrait of a generic businessman (except for the hair, which had Kuroo musing on his line of work). The man did as before, pulling off his jacket followed by his tie, dropping his clothes on the second seat as he settled into the one furthest away.  
  
Ushijima stepped forward; Kuroo placed a hand on his chest, turned his back to the new customer and gave Ushijima the smallest shake of his head.  
  
“He’s mine.” His voice was low, almost a growl.  
  
Ushijima blinked. “You are already—”  
  
“I need to speak with him. You take over with that woman over there, and make sure to rescue Azumane when you’re done.”  
  
Kuroo waited for the nod, and Ushijima walked away to leave him to study this newly discovered species.  
  
He picked up his professionalism and wore it the way he usually did – with a secretive smirk and a knowing glint in his eyes.   
  
Turning, he asked, “Yukiguni, right?”  
  
The man looked up, a little taken aback at the question. “Irish coffee,” he corrected, closing the menu.  
  
Was it a drink he wanted, or the first drink that came to mind so he could prove him wrong? Kuroo hoped it was the latter, it meant the man was an easy target for riling.  
  
“Interesting choice for a Friday night,” Kuroo said, pulling a glass from under the counter.  
  
“Is it.”  
  
“Not quite a drink someone asks for when celebrating the weekend.”  
  
“I’m not celebrating.”  
  
One deflection after another – Kuroo was going to have to work harder. “I don’t recommend the drink if you’re planning on knocking it back, you’ll end up with twice the burn.”  
  
“So that’s what I’ve been doing wrong all these years,” the man replied flatly. “Thanks.”  
  
“It’s what I’m here for, to make your drinking experience more enjoyable.” Kuroo switched on the nearby kettle with a smirk – he had discovered an opening. “If you feel like making a contribution in return for that little tidbit, I won’t refuse – I’m easy going so a name’ll do.”  
  
Kuroo risked a glance, finding the scowl rearranged to consideration, and then sliding into neutral.  
  
“Semi.”  
  
No tells, voice clear – likely real.  
  
Maybe the interest was mutual.  
  
“Semi,” Kuroo repeated, testing out the name on his tongue. He couldn’t do much with it, couldn’t draw it annoyingly out or shorten it to something sweet, but he liked the way it sounded. “All right, Semi. Give me one moment.”  
  
There was a deliberate pause left for Semi to pick up on and fill with a question that would have Kuroo answering with his name, and they would ping pong back and forth until Kuroo went in for the final smash.  
  
But Semi didn’t, no matter how long the silence dragged out. So while preparing the coffee, Kuroo was forced to pick up where they left off. “What is it you do, Semi?”  
  
“Work in an office.”  
  
“What kind?”  
  
“The dull kind.”  
  
Kuroo glanced up. “And they let you keep the hair?”  
  
“Lax policies and I’m good at what I do.”   
  
Semi looked almost bored as he said it. Better than irritated, not as good as engaged; Kuroo needed to think of something quick.  
  
“Say, it _is_ a Friday, so how about we liven things up with a bit of fun? A quick game?”  
  
Kuroo focused on the order to stop himself from looking at him – he didn’t want to make it seem like he expected Semi to say yes.  
  
“I’m a little too old for games.”  
  
“Because you always lose?” Kuroo placed a glass of freshly-brewed, whiskey-spiked, cream-topped coffee in front of Semi and decided to gauge his interest. “The best Irish coffee in Tokyo made by yours truly. If you disagree, you can have your drink on the house.”  
  
Suspicion swept over Semi’s face, unsure if the offer was too good to be true, and Kuroo loved that Semi readily displayed his emotions for him to see.  
  
“And if I agree?”  
  
_He took the bait._  
  
Within ten minutes of Semi’s reappearance, Kuroo had narrowed down the glitch in the curse (or blessing) to: Semi returning for round two to offload because round one had failed, and Semi returning because something about the bar had seized his interest and it wasn’t the accommodating atmosphere.   
  
Whatever the reason, Kuroo knew a chance when he saw one. He instinctively glanced over to Morion, almost seeking out approval to take advantage of the situation; the flash of bright light was so subtle it could have been a trick of the hopeful mind.  
  
“If you agree, you give me a valid way of contacting you,” Kuroo said, turning back to Semi.  
  
He didn’t receive an answer straight away, which was already a point in his favour – if Semi had been really hung up on his previous romance, he would have refused outright, either verbally or writing it across his face.   
  
“Maybe I’ll lie to get a free drink,” Semi said carefully.  
  
Kuroo shrugged to give off the impression he didn’t care. “Sure, if that’s what you want. It’s no loss to me.”  
  
At the unspoken jab, the corner of Semi’s mouth curled into a quiet smile.  
  
The reply came in the form of a sip and Semi locking their eyes – Kuroo wanted to take part in the staring contest but the temptation was too strong; he broke away to watch him roll the liquid in his mouth, with slow and deliberate moves of the tongue. Kuroo’s gaze dipped when Semi swallowed – he swallowed too – and down his neck to as far as the open-collared shirt allowed of his chest. Kuroo caught himself lingering and brought his attention back up to meet Semi’s blazing stare.  
  
Semi put down the glass. He reached over to his bag, rummaging around with his hands out of sight, then – a tear, more fidgeting, and he pulled out a wallet.  
  
“How much?”  
  
“Nine-hundred yen.”  
  
Semi counted out the change, dropped a neat stack of five coins on the countertop.  
  
A folded slip of paper lay on top.  
  
“Leave me alone while I finish this and don’t open it till after I’ve left.”  
  
Kuroo slipped the note into the pocket of his waistcoat for safekeeping, looked up – winked. “Hope you won’t take the loss too hard.”  
  
“I think I’ll manage,” Semi said with a sneer that looked too pleased.  
  
Kuroo did as he was told, this time ordering Azumane outright to take a break. The woman didn’t protest, which meant it didn’t matter who was paying attention to her so long as it was one of the devilishly handsome men (he had no shame in referring to himself as one), and began retelling the story of her divorce.  
  
Semi dragged it out, sip after excruciatingly-long sip. Kuroo refused to glance in his direction – knowing his luck Semi would be watching and he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction that Semi had him wrapped firmly around his finger.  
  
Azumane returned, a customer left, two more entered, and eventually from the corner of his eye he saw movement from Semi’s direction – and the sound of the bell to indicate his exit.  
  
He gave it an additional five minutes, just in case.  
  
“Sorry, I have to clear the counter,” Kuroo said, ignoring the protests and walking over to the empty glass. He picked it up at the same time as he pulled out the slip, opening it up—  
  
73 x 2 + 3  
  
Kuroo stared at the scrawl in black ink, and broke out into a grin.

_“You’re gonna have to narrow that down.”_  
  
_“...”_  
  
_“So you’re basically suggesting there’s something wrong with one hundred percent of who I am.”_  
  
_“...”_  
  
_“Goddamnit, Kenma, this could be our last conversation and you’re not gonna say anything?”_  
  
_“It won’t change anything.”_  
  
_“It’ll change the way I feel about you!”_  
  
_“How do you feel about me?”_

* * * *

“Any luck on your maths homework?”  
  
Kuroo leaned back against the wall behind the counter, staring down at the slip of paper while Moniwa gave a pre-opening wipe-down on their Thursday shift the following week.  
  
(He wasn’t a heartless manager who abused his authority to have others working while taking it easy – the early shift fell onto Moniwa on Thursdays, where he had this knack of cornering Kuroo into a position that prevented him from doing any work or getting in the way of his.)  
  
Kuroo hoped eyeing him from under his fringe upped the disapproval that came with having to hear that question. “What do you think?”  
  
Moniwa used the back of his hand to push hair out of his face and wandered over to peer at the piece of paper. “Didn’t you say you have a degree in chemical engineering?”  
  
“You know what, Moniwa, I was just thinking the other day about the good old days and I couldn’t for the life of me remember what happened in the four years between my high school graduation and my official admission as a fully-functioning member of society.”  
  
He already had enough of Bokuto’s nice but unhelpful suggestions as to what the answer could be (work extension line, home building number, library reference of his favourite book, locker number for his home station, none of which made sense when there was _no other additional information_). Add on top Ushijima’s observation that the answer wasn’t long enough to be a phone number, Azumane’s sympathetic looks thrown between serving drinks, and Iwaizumi’s judgemental stare clearly expressing that he didn’t think much of Kuroo but he did expect him to be smarter, and Kuroo was beginning to think the years spent on his degree had amounted to nothing.  
  
Well, he knew it already had. But he didn’t need this fact rubbed in his face.  
  
“You’re just upset you didn’t say phone number,” Moniwa said and returned to wiping.   
  
“You’ve got to widen your options in this day and age.”  
  
“You’re speaking like a person who doesn’t often complain about the excess amount of functions and apps on their phone.” Moniwa gave a nod to the slip. “Look on the bright side, he proved this place isn’t cursed.”  
  
For someone who was the most level headed and down to earth of the six, Kuroo still wondered how Moniwa was the first to instantly swallow the bar’s rumours without even questioning their authenticity.   
  
“Is that the kind of realistic advice you dish out to our customers? The kind no one wants to hear?”  
  
“I can see you’re feeling sensitive so I’ll close my mouth and let you concentrate on tackling your problem.”  
  
Kuroo resisted the urge to smack his head back and tucked the dogged slip back into his waistcoat just as Bokuto made an appearance. He didn’t even know why he carried it around with him. Something about seeing the scrappy handwriting to remind him what happened wasn’t a figure of his imagination.  
  
It was turning into one of those evenings where customers challenged his temperament. Enter one middle-aged man who could only be described as hysterical (who Moniwa eventually managed to calm down with the kind of realistic advice Kuroo had snubbed earlier) (of course), one young man who cheated on his ex-girlfriend, and said ex-girlfriend half an hour later, and the scene escalated to Bokuto trying to throw the ex-boyfriend out of the bar without being accused of assault while Kuroo tried to console the woman without being accused of harassment.  
  
Thankfully that had been the peak and things returned relatively normal.  
  
Or so Kuroo thought, until the only regular of the bar decided to walk through the door, taking up his usual seat.  
  
Just when he thought the night couldn’t get any worse.  
  
“You take this one,” Kuroo hissed at Moniwa, who looked over at Semi, then back to Kuroo with a musing look on his face.  
  
“Are you going to reject Morion’s blessing in front of her?”  
  
They both turned to the cat sitting calmly at the end of the table and the light above her head violently flickered.  
  
Moniwa turned back to Kuroo with a pointed look.  
  
“You just want to watch my ego get knocked down a few pegs,” Kuroo accused.  
  
“I’d be lying if I said I’m not intrigued or you don’t deserve it,” Moniwa replied pleasantly, “but you’re a strong man – I have every faith you can handle it.”  
  
It would have been easier to hate Moniwa if he wasn’t such a nice, genuine guy.  
  
There was nothing left to do except resign to his fated humiliation.  
  
“What’ll it be for tonight?” Kuroo asked, approaching Semi.  
  
“So you couldn’t solve it,” Semi said, going straight for the kill.  
  
“You’re quick to judge,” Kuroo said with a laugh; it was a little strained. “Maybe I’m keeping you on your toes. Why – were you expecting me to call sooner? Did I keep you up throughout the nights?”  
  
Semi pulled out his phone and waved it at him. “Prove it. Ring me right now.”  
  
A beat. “No can do, we run a strict no-phone policy while on the clock. As a manager it would be irresponsible to set a bad example for the others and sully the bar’s reputation in the process.”  
  
“And I’m guessing it took effect as of ten seconds ago.” Semi checked his phone and Kuroo breathed an inward sigh of relief at the break. He was usually good at bouncing back replies, tonight he could barely keep up.  
  
“How about this,” Semi said, beginning to type. “If you don’t ring me right now, you give me a free drink.”  
  
Kuroo didn’t like the sound of where this was going. “And if I do?”  
  
Semi paused, glanced up. “I’ll let you fuck me.”  
  
Lust stirred and squeezed low in his gut, lured by the crude proposal spoken softly. He tried to stop the image from taking shape, felt blood flowing in the wrong direction and he reminded himself he was a fully-grown man in control of his own body.  
  
_Stop_.   
  
As a bartender he was expected to be the very definition of sapience and poise – he had to use his head.  
  
There was something off about Semi’s game. Too much aggression. Too much swagger. Too much desperation. Last week he was playful and blunt, not crass and explicit.  
  
Tonight he had come to the bar for a reason, and that reason wasn’t him.  
  
Kuroo backed off, raised his arms in defeat. “You got me. What’s your poison of choice?”  
  
Semi’s frown deepened. “Between the Sheets,” he said firmly.  
  
To be fair, Kuroo expected worse. There were other cringingly-lewder, painfully-vibrant variations to what Semi was asking – almost begging – of Kuroo.  
  
He wasn’t going to bite.  
  
“I’ll get Moniwa to make one for you.”  
  
The movement was quick, Semi pushing himself over the counter and grabbing his wrist, a wildness to his eyes.  
  
“You’re chickening out?”  
  
Kuroo took a moment to keep ahold of his calm. “I’m getting you the man who makes the better drink.”  
  
“I thought I read you right.”  
  
“Funny you should say exactly what I was thinking.”  
  
“Don’t run away pretending you’re not interested.”  
  
Kuroo was taller and therefore stronger (probably, though he suspected from the way his shirt clung to his body that Semi worked out more), he could have easily pulled himself away and abandoned the repertoire they had built up during their previous encounters. Put a stop to their exchanges. Never see each other again.  
  
But the result of fucking Semi would be the same. He could see it now – Semi knew Kuroo didn’t have the answer, otherwise he wouldn’t be giving him the offer. But he wanted Kuroo to give him the answer because he wanted him to take his mind off whatever problem it was he had, and he wanted that done through one way and one way only.  
  
That would destroy their repertoire. Put a stop to their exchanges. And they would never see each other again.  
  
So he decided to reveal a side to himself only a handful of people knew.  
  
“It’s because I’m interested, Semi.”  
  
Semi widened his eyes at the sentimentality, tightening his grip around Kuroo’s wrist that was beginning to cut off circulation; he averted his gaze as he thought, emotions flickering across his face – confusion, consideration, calibration, comprehension – and Kuroo hoped the last meant he had reached the correct conclusion.  
  
“Semi, Semi, Three.”  
  
Kuroo blinked at him, frowned as he wondered what the hell he was talking about—  
  
_Right._   
  
Seven and three – _Se-mi – _twice, and the number three. SemiSemi3.  
  
It was an ID.  
  
“I bet you’re really proud of yourself for thinking that up,” Kuroo finally said, the grin small but coming to his face naturally.  
  
Semi loosened his hold, noted Kuroo wasn’t bolting and removed his hand. “A little – no one’s been able to get it so far.” He shifted his gaze to the counter and muttered, “But you might be the first I’ve handed the answer out to.”  
  
His answer reminded Kuroo why he was drawn to him – the guarded, hard-to-get persona cracking open with the right words. Kuroo wouldn’t have been nearly as into him if he had to pry and force. If someone pointed it out he would say it was down to his lazy nature. Nothing to do with past experience at all.  
  
“I won’t keep you waiting this time.”  
  
Semi looked up – his features softened.   
  
The gentle squeeze in Kuroo’s chest was more powerful than the earlier lustful spike, and stayed with him long after Semi had gone.

_“What?”_  
  
_“How do you feel about me?”_  
  
_“Why are you even—”_  
  
_“Because you don’t tell me.”_  
  
_“I – wow. So you’re shifting the blame onto me. You, who hardly say a word even when we’re sitting next to each other.”_  
  
_“...”_  
  
_“Okay. Okay, fine. How about I save you the trouble and I’ll move out—”_  
  
_“Kuro—”_  
  
_“No, you said it – or actually, you didn’t, but I’m assuming the conclusion you want me to come to is that I’m the cause. So I’ll grab my stuff and make my way out.”_  
  
_“Where are you—”_  
  
_“Don’t act like it matters. Because it doesn’t. Not anymore.”_

* * * *

At twenty-past two on Sunday night, Kuroo sat on the barstool closest to the door, the only one he hadn’t flipped upside down onto the counter. He stared at the chat screen with a stamp of a black cat waving, marked as read but without a reply.  
  
He had sent it after finishing work on the Thursday, easily finding Semi’s ID, adding him to his contacts, debating in the time it took to finish his first cigarette over how best to start a conversation and choosing the easiest route.  
  
So the two days silence wasn’t getting to him one bit, because – he assured himself for the millionth time – he could trust the sparks they shared.  
  
Maybe Semi didn’t recognise who ‘Kuroo’ was. And it was obvious to Kuroo that the black cat was a reference to the bar, but would Semi get it?  
  
He would get it. He was the smart man who made up a maths equation a man with a degree in chemical engineering couldn’t solve  
  
Twenty-three minutes past. He set the phone down and was about to flick away the app when a bubble popped up.  
  
_Is the bar still open?_  
  
_Ah, fuck. _Kuroo wasn’t one to care about conventions, but even he knew having a new message automatically marked as read gave the impression he had been staring pathetically at the screen, desperate for a response.  
  
He waited to see if Semi would mention anything, and when nothing came he pretended as he typed that Semi closed the screen too fast to notice the ‘read’ mark.   
  
_The door’s still open._  
  
It was instantly marked as read.  
  
So much for pretending.  
  
He paused, then added another line.   
  
_What do you want to drink?_  
  
Kuroo waited – ten seconds, twenty – wishing they would add a way of seeing whether the other person was typing—  
  
_Anything strong._  
  
Nothing fancy then. Kuroo went by the rule of what he drank when life took a turn for the worse and moved over to the drinks to grab the bottle of scotch.  
  
It must have been half an hour when Kuroo heard the violent ring from the bell; he looked up to see Semi in a simple mix of t-shirt and jeans, his hair dishevelled like he had just rolled out of bed.  
  
“Rough night?”  
  
Semi headed straight for the glass on the counter, half full with amber liquid, and wasn’t even seated when he gulped it down, bursting into a fit of coughs as he slammed the glass down.  
  
Gently Kuroo placed his fingers over Semi’s, nudging at them until eventually Semi loosened his grip on the glass and Kuroo could slip it out for a refill. He set it down, this time with his hand guarding the drink.  
  
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, nodding at the chair.  
  
Semi complied, sliding into the seat. When Kuroo judged he had calmed enough not to down this one as well, he released the glass for Semi’s taking.   
  
“Six months ago I broke up with this guy.”  
  
Not even a sip into his second round – Kuroo wasn’t prepared for the confession to come this early. He imagined having to crack a few gentle jokes and at least a third before Semi’s tongue began to loosen.  
  
“Just before the first time I came here, I went to this fancy party that I still don’t know what it was for, all because a coworker wanted to try and hook up with someone but he didn’t want to go alone.”  
  
“Not sure bringing a plus one’s the most effective way of doing that,” Kuroo commented quietly, considering Semi to be the type who appreciated the odd remark as a sign he was being listened to, rather than talk to complete silence.  
  
He considered right – Semi snorted, amusement flashing across his face before dissolving.  
  
“He obviously had the same idea because five minutes in and he’d disappeared on me. So I searched for him to say I was leaving when who is it that I see but my ex, looking in my direction. We didn’t say anything, just stared each other down. Then some random guy comes up to him, touching him on the arm, slipping it around his waist, and as I watched him turn to this guy I realised – I wasn’t completely over him.”  
  
“Nothing like a third party to force you to come to terms with your emotions.”   
  
“He started messaging. I messaged back because I have no self-control. Then Thursday he asks me if I’m free to meet up to ‘talk about us’. _Us. _Like we’re still together. As though he wasn’t the first to say we should split. I brushed it off. He tried again tonight.”  
  
That explained the sudden change in behaviour Kuroo experienced the other night.  
  
“So why aren’t you there now?”  
  
Semi shook his head like he was rejecting a new drink he was asked to try. “Because I know how it’ll go. We were always shoving our own points down each other’s throats without bothering to listen. People always go on about saying what’s on your mind or communication being key, but it doesn’t work. It doesn’t work with a stubborn idiot like him, and definitely not when two stubborn idiots are involved.”  
  
Kuroo watched Semi take a sip and realised what was missing – the turmoil of emotions sputtering out through jitters, shuffling, and commentary snatched up from the stream of thoughts only to be washed back down with liquor.   
  
Semi was calm aside from the slight shake of his hand, and his expression – Kuroo wanted to say determined, though he couldn’t pinpoint why. He prided himself in being an accurate reader of people, but tonight was a surprise test sprung onto him to see if he was still deserving of that title. He would need to cough up more than a comforting word to pass – he would need to expose himself.  
  
Kuroo avoided retelling stories directly from experience. The conversation became too personal and it wasn’t his place to offload. The same rule applied when talking to the other bartenders – he asked their backgrounds for the smooth functioning of the bar (and to vaguely explain the rumours), he didn’t expect them to talk more than necessary and in turn they never asked in detail about him.  
  
But Semi wasn’t just a customer.  
  
“We were the opposite,” Kuroo began slowly. “I’d known him for a few years, went through seven tries before realising why none of them felt right, and on the eighth I asked him out. It worked out well enough for us to move in. We never really talked much – we’re what you might call reserved, him in the secluded sense, me introspective – and that didn’t change just because we lived together. Maybe we got too comfortable. Or lazy, assuming we already knew what the other was thinking without bothering to check. We should have realised things needed to change. We needed to open up more. Communicate.”  
  
He remembered walking in to the usual scene of Kenma playing a game – a hack and slash just released at the time – Kuroo settling himself onto the sofa just after two in the morning (because he had only just started working at the bar then, and was ordered to leave early). He was half watching, half drifting when Kenma’s quiet murmur shocked him out of his drowsiness.  
  
He had walked out because it was easier to do than trying to say what was on his mind or sift through the right questions to unlock Kenma so he would say what was on his.  
  
To Kenma’s credit, he tried. He didn’t leave voicemail, but he called. Again. And again.  
  
And then he didn’t.  
  
“So what are you saying, that we had it better?” Semi asked, tugging Kuroo out of his memory.  
  
“I’m saying if you can already see what the problem is, you’re halfway to finding middle ground. Talk it over, come to an agreement. Give it another shot.”  
  
Semi snorted. “Really. And what about you?”  
  
Kuroo shrugged. “What about me?”  
  
“Come on – all that trouble and now you’re suggesting I get back with my ex? No one’s that nice. Or stupid.”  
  
This was why Kuroo drew the line at flirting. The customers were supposed to leave after the first time, and he was supposed to wait until someone new came along for him to keep up his pickup abilities. There had been comfort in knowing the curse existed, because he knew nothing more could happen.  
  
But then Semi had entered – _four times_ – and now they were battling it out, pitting the rules of the bar against each other, curse versus blessing.  
  
“You said you weren’t over him,” Kuroo carried on saying, anything to push him away. Semi couldn’t be the real deal.  
  
“That was two weeks ago. And I said not _completely_.” Semi sighed out of annoyance. “Why do you think I came here to tell you this? It sure as hell isn’t because I want advice.”  
  
Semi released a frustrated groan, ruffled his hair. Tapped his fingers on the counter, chewed on the corner of his bottom lip and – staring off to the side – said, “I want to get the message across of what I didn’t choose for what I did.”  
  
Kuroo would have feigned ignorance – if his heart wasn’t hammering the point home.  
  
And what Semi said about himself was definitely true – he was a stubborn idiot.  
  
“It’s not too late to change your mind,” Kuroo told him.  
  
He wasn’t sure if anyone had ever directed to him a glare Semi was giving him now, like he wanted to grab him by the collar, throw him on the counter, and knock some sense into him by using him as a punching bag or giving him the most intense orgasm of his life.  
  
(He didn’t know much about Semi, but knowing little of what he did, he wouldn’t be surprised if Semi would try both simultaneously.)  
  
“I don’t do backtracks. I decide what I want, and I stick it out until I get it.”  
  
“Sounds to me like you don’t want to admit you made the wrong decision.”  
  
“There aren’t any ‘wrong’ decisions. There are just decisions.”  
  
“That’s profound. You could almost turn it into a proverb.”  
  
“I swear, you’re really testing me—”  
  
“Why take the risk on the unknown when you could work with what’s familiar?”  
  
Semi broke off their rally, his rising temper subsiding as he mulled over the question.  
  
“Familiarity doesn’t make it any safer. And it’s only risky if you let it be.” Semi looked up. “I told you why I’m here. What are you going to decide?”  
  
It was Kuroo’s turn to look aside, flipping through possible replies. What he wanted, deserved, what was real, unattainable, and he stopped at one that felt...  
  
“Try talking to him. And I’ll be here if you need me.”  
  
Obviously it wasn’t the answer Semi wanted to hear, eyes narrowing to reel in disappointment, jaw tightening to stop a bitter comeback – only for a second though as he opened his mouth, inhaled, double-checked it was what he really wanted to say.  
  
“But not if I want you.”  
  
Semi stood up, pulling out his wallet.   
  
“You came all this way of chatting me up, getting my details, making yourself known just so you can back out. I made my peace with my past. What’s your unfinished business?” He placed a ten thousand yen note on the counter. “Keep the change.”  
  
The rings were mellow as the door opened and closed.  
  
Kuroo released a shaky breath.   
  
_Yeah, that stings._  
  
He picked up the glass – drink almost untouched – and caught the black cat’s stare as he moved to the sink.  
  
“I did my job,” he insisted out loud, a sudden urge to defend himself to the dead object. “And now he can move on.”  
  
The light above its head dimmed.  
  
It took ten minutes to straighten out the room and he turned off the lights without a second glance, locked up and hauled himself up the stairs.  
  
He got to halfway, stopped, pulled out his phone. Pulled up a contact and stared at the name until his thumb hit the number.  
  
It was ringing when he brought it to his ear – and continued to ring as he walked the rest of the way up, each step growing heavier. He mentally cracked a weak joke that he was letting himself go if his heart was beating so fast over a few measly steps.  
  
As he walked out onto the pavement he heard a click.  
  
“Hey—”  
  
A burst of heavy slashes and gunfire, shrill calls and cries, impending music crushing his confidence.  
  
Kuroo stopped his feet; he should have thought the rest of the conversation through.   
  
“Long time no speaking.”  
  
Silence.  
  
Past self would have been proud that he eventually turned into one of the few people who could make Kenma put everything on hold.  
  
“Mhm.”  
  
This was a mistake, and he was about to repeat it out loud when he heard from the other end, “What’s wrong?”  
  
Kenma’s voice was deceptively soft compared to the words hooking and hoisting to surface matters unspoken.  
  
“Just wondered how you were.”  
  
Silence stretched out.  
  
“Fine.”  
  
What did he want to know? Why they didn’t work out? What he was doing now? Who he was with?  
  
“What’re you playing recently?”  
  
“Same game. Different version.”  
  
No, no, no, he didn’t want to ask any more questions when he didn’t want to know the answers. He didn’t care about the answers.  
  
So then, what?  
  
“Sorry it took this long to get back to you. You know what I’m like.”  
  
More silence, though it didn’t feel like words were attached to the end of this one.  
  
“I’ll get to the point. I was – I’ve been thinking about – just thinking.”  
  
_Don’t run away now._  
  
“Thinking. About... you. And I’ve decided – decided? ...Yeah. I’ve decided to – to let you go. Pretty selfish of me to ring you up after all these years and dig everything up again, you’ve probably already forgotten about me. But then, I always was the selfish one.”  
  
What had been his strongest hang up? What had caused the guilt, the string of unchangeable what ifs?  
  
“I don’t blame you. About what you said. What you chose to do. But I don’t regret anything either. What I did. How things turned out. I’m not sorry for the way I acted.”  
  
The air shifted with a faint rustle.  
  
“Neither am I.”  
  
Kuroo felt he should be angry at that, but strangely he wasn’t. Maybe Semi was right. There were only decisions.  
  
“Okay then. That’s it. Sorry for ruining your night—”  
  
“Kuro?”  
  
The name gripped him. “Yeah?”  
  
“How are you recently?”  
  
Igniting memories of old flames, extinguishing futures of new ones.  
  
“I’m… doing all right,” he said, found the words didn’t taste like a lie. “Had a good turn.”   
  
He didn’t mention he also turned it down.  
  
“That’s nice.”  
  
“Yeah. I think it is.” He couldn’t think of anything else he needed to say, so decided to end the call. “Take care of yourself.”  
  
“You too.”  
  
The line cut off.  
  
Kuroo breathed in slowly as he lowered his phone back down, which trembled with his hand. He stared at the contact name, the number he had just rung, and did what he should have done all those years ago.  
  
Edit. Delete.   
  
Release a shaky “fuck.”  
  
“Took you long enough.”  
  
Kuroo whipped round to find Semi leaning against the building wall. He almost asked how much of that he had heard, but the streets were so silent even the buzz of a mosquito would have carried. Deciding to skip the embarrassing unpleasantries, he tested the amount of humour he had left in him.   
  
“Waiting on more of my words of wisdom? I’m off the clock now – might have to start charging you extra.”  
  
Semi pushed himself off and walked up to him. “Name your price.”  
  
Kuroo left that thread hanging and picked up another. “Did you contact him?”  
  
Semi’s expression didn’t change as he came to a stop in front of him, a little too inside his personal space for it to be comfortable. “Yeah, I did.”  
  
“Then shouldn’t you be on your way?”  
  
Semi stepped closer, and now their bodies were almost touching. He leaned in, off to the side and to Kuroo’s ear, about to let him in on a secret. The whiskey’s strong aroma was expected and a scent Kuroo was used to, but he picked out notes of other fragrances. Something woody. Maybe even citrusy.  
  
“Drop the act, Kuroo.”  
  
Hearing his own name come out of Semi’s mouth for the first time surprised him – and brought an uncertain smile to his face as he glanced over.  
  
“It’s not acting, it’s an honest concern. I’m a decent guy. An embodiment of virtue.”  
  
A huff of breath on his skin; Kuroo shivered.  
  
“Let’s say I believe you. Tell me what a so-called decent and virtuous guy would do next.”  
  
Kuroo pushed aside the strong desire to tell him it was the worst mistake he could make. He ignored the voices telling him that Semi would cast him out when he found out what Kuroo really was – a timid stray starving for attention – for affection.  
  
He concentrated on Semi’s features. Hair glowing twice as bright from the lamppost. Irides stained a solid black concealing his soul. Shadows smudging out the sharp lines on his face, erasing the criticism to leave stubbornness – perseverance.  
  
If Semi had decided on Kuroo, what would he do once he had him? Neither were of a naïve age to offer or expect a ‘forever’.  
  
But maybe with Semi, who refused to give up without a fight, who kept returning, kept drilling his points home so deep they couldn’t be ignored—  
  
“Ask if you want to join me for breakfast.”  
  
Semi leaned back, regarding Kuroo carefully. “I literally have to be in the office in a few hours,” he said, tone shifted to business-mode. “My current options are wait out the two hours for the first train or grab a taxi—”  
  
“So call in sick.”  
  
“What do I look like to you, a stu—” Semi seemed to remember he wasn’t dressed in a suit and quickly added, “Don’t answer that. If I said the same thing and asked you to call in sick so we can have dinner—”  
  
“I’d ask Moniwa to come in and take charge for the night, and he’d demand to know why I was still here.”  
  
They stared at each other and Semi shook his head in resignation. “_Virtue_. Yeah, right.”  
  
“Is that a yes to breakfast?”  
  
“It’s a yes to an all-expenses-paid breakfast at a place where there’s no chance anyone would recognise me.”  
  
Kuroo turned to his phone, did a quick search and dialled a number. “I can make that happen,” he said, putting his phone to his ear.  
  
“Wait, what’re you doing—”  
  
“—_how may I help you?_”  
  
“Hi, I’m asking to see if you’ve got a taxi available.”  
  
Kuroo tried to ignore the protests coming in from one ear as he answered questions from the other – then that vice grip was on his arm shaking him for attention, and – he ducked, avoiding the hand flying to his face to make a grab for his phone.  
  
They would take the ride to somewhere quiet, maybe beachside, a clichéd choice but – _Kamakura_ – that sounded like a great idea even with the jumped-up late-night charges, and they would arrive well in time for an early breakfast – _fish – _who wouldn’t take advantage of fresh ocean pickings, and hopefully Semi would agree, and afterwards when they were both full and the first wave of drowsiness rolled in they could just sit on the sand awhile – _kiss_ – because once their shoulders brushed he didn’t think he could stop himself from reaching out to touch his hair, and his skin, and his lips, and they would gently stir themselves awake until a particularly gusty salt-breeze suggested to them the direction of their next adventure.   
  
He didn’t have much of a plan after that. But as he heard the upbeat jingle of hold music and glanced down to Semi, face red from alcohol, irritation, embarrassment, outwardly protesting while badly hiding inward delight, Kuroo wanted to know.  
  
What if he allowed his heart, still wounded and healing but longing for a connection, to take over and be the light that guided him – because he may not have been able to trust the flicker of hope, but he could trust he wouldn’t lead himself astray—  
  
What if the night dawned and time resumed its natural course so he could take the days as they came—  
  
What if he and Semi—  
  
What if—


End file.
